


For Death is my Gardener, the Tender to my Soil and Self

by natcat5



Series: Dark Month 2015 [25]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Death, Existentialism, F/M, Gen, Historical Hetalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5111675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What does death mean to you, after all?” Austria asks. </p><p>“Growth,” Holy Rome answers immediately, “Development and power. What allows us to advance."</p><p>“We are born from ground sewn with human lives,” Austria agrees, “You more than anyone, I think. Human death means something different, it’s true. But what about death itself, Holy Rome? To you, what does it mean to die?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Death is my Gardener, the Tender to my Soil and Self

**Author's Note:**

> *history note: takes place shortly before the outbreak of the Thirty Years' War

He cannot find _Italia._

She is not in her room, or sweeping the grounds, or attending to Austria. She is not in the kitchen or the gardens or following Hungary, and it is too early for her to be curled up in an alcove taking a siesta. He is concerned. It’s like her to slack off sometimes, to absent-mindedly not be where she is supposed to, but for her to be absolutely nowhere to be found is unusual.

He is worried.

The rumbles of war have been loud of late. The dissidents, the insurgents, the volatile Protestants who continue to beat their drums of heresy and noncompliance. His masters are grumbling, are tense and angry. Spain in particular is irritated by the lack of a more violent upholding of the Catholic faith, and with his rumbles of discontent come the threatening beat of soldiers’ marching. Spain and he might be united under one house, but they are contenders in a power struggle all the same. They are allies, but their goals do not always align. Spain wants war, and he himself…

It’s not that Holy Rome doesn’t want war, it’s that he doesn’t want war with _himself._ The Protestant princes are his own, and while they clash with deeply ingrained parts of his nature he knows their minds and sentiments as his own. They are _his,_ like all the Catholic states in his vast empire. Spain wants war against the Protestants. He is unconcerned with the fact that Protestants in question are Holy Rome’s people.

But they can all smell the blood on the breeze. He and Austria and Hungary. There will be war, and dying, and death. And with it, hopefully, will come unification of sorts. If his people must go to war, if the Protestant minorities battled and wiped away, then let the result be unity at last. Let his 200 principalities and kingdoms become as one, as they were so close to being before Luther and his Thesis swept through the continent like a devil-ordained flood.

He is sure that Italia has heard of this, to some extent. She is not so far from Rome, her brother’s place though it may be. And she is sensitive to the plight of the Catholic faith as he himself is. Does she want war? She is so quiet and kind, so in love with flowers and art and beauty. But she is a Nation as he is. She was born from blood as they all were, and knows that they achieve greatness and growth only through continued, endless battle.

Where could she be?

He hurries through the halls of his house, evading questions and conversation from the officials visiting here. Austria will deal with them for him. He’s been so consumed with talk of war these past days that he has barely been able to sit and stay with Italia at all. What if she is upset about something? What if something is bothering her? Is she off crying somewhere, upset? Has she left the Empire for business in her own lands, and neglected to tell him? He has been so very wrapped up in his own affairs. It is his right as his own Nation, it is true, but he would never want to slight Italia, even accidentally. He cares for her so.

He crosses the entrance hall for the third time that day, growing frantic. It is out of the corner of his eye that he sees the entrance being to creak open, and he skids to a stop as he sees a familiar small figure struggling to get through the heavy door.

“Italia!” Holy Rome exclaims, changing directions to hurry towards her, helping her with the door.

“ _Grazie,_ Holy Rome,” she says, giving a small curtsy as the entrance shuts behind her. “I’m sorry, I know I’m late-,”

“No, no, it’s no problem.” Holy Rome says hurriedly, immediately squashing down all of the concern and panic he felt. He can’t tell her about that. She might feel bad. Or worse, she might be unsettled out by how much he disliked not knowing where she was. He doesn’t want her to think he stalks her or anything. He doesn’t. Really! He just worries. He was worried.

“But…where were you?” he can’t resist asking, “Did Austria send you out on an errand? It’s unusual for you to go unattended.”

“Oh, no,” Italia replies, shaking her head, “I asked permission to be released from my chores this morning. There was something I had to attend to.”

 _Don’t ask. If she wants to tell you. She will._ “O-oh, is that so?” Holy Rome stammers, fidgeting a little, “Well, I…”

“Will you walk me to my room, Holy Rome?” Italia asks, smiling, “If you are not busy, I can tell you about it.”

“Yes!” he exclaims immediately, and then blushes, shuffling backwards a few steps. “I mean…Yes, gladly.”

He considers offering her his arm, but they’re just walking through the house together, not entering a court. And she might not want to take his arm anyways. Or she’d take it, but it might be out of obligation. Or worse, pity. Italia is so kind. She is so lovely and sweet. He is glad that she’s back in his house, safe and accounted for.

“Do you remember the gardener who attended to the bushes beneath my window?” she begins as they walk through the huge halls, “Herr Einsneir, a very nice man.”

Holy Rome does not. It is hard for him to keep track of humans. He concentrates his efforts on the Hapsburg House and the families related to them through marriage. Anyone else tends to slip through the cracks of his memory. He shakes his head.

“A very nice man,” Italia repeats, sounding sad, “He died a few days ago. The pox. He was so kind to me, and so dear. I went to his family home to attend his funeral mass and burial. I cannot always be there as my friends are sent into the arms of God, so I was glad I could be there for him. He was so very nice, Holy Rome. I’ll miss him.”

Tears begin to well up in Italia’s big, brown eyes, but she wipes them away quickly sniffling.

Holy Rome is a bit perplexed. A human funeral? For a common gardener? He feels like he’s missed something. Princes are one thing, but the death of an ordinary human means almost nothing at all. They die so often and so easily. And their deaths are what allow Nations to grow. Their blood fertilizes the earth that healthy, strong empires spring from. Human death is so integral to the life of Nations, and humans themselves so numerous and fleeting in their existences, that he can’t imagine sparing tears, sparing _time_ over the mourning of one. Especially one who wasn’t royalty or aristocracy or theocracy. Especially one who wasn’t anyone at all.

And. Austria authorized Italia to go? To attend this man in passing? The entire business is boggling.

But he does not say that. He does not want to offend or upset Italia. He never wants that.

So he makes a conciliatory sound, gives Italia a handkerchief to dry her tears, and walks her to her room, silent.

\--

“Austria,” says Holy Rome, “Why did you give permission for Italia to attend that gardener’s funeral?”

Austria looks up from his paperwork, glasses sliding down his nose. His expression is flat and unamused for a few seconds, like he doesn’t understand why Holy Rome is asking him such an inane question, but then a spark of comprehension flickers in his eyes, and his countenance becomes profoundly uncomfortable.

“Because he was her friend, Holy Rome,” he replies shortly. Holy Rome frowns.

“I don’t understand,” he says, and Austria sighs.

“No, I thought you mightn’t,” he murmurs, “What does death mean to you, after all?”

“Growth,” Holy Rome answers immediately, “Development and power. What allows us to advance. What are you saying?”

“We are born from ground sewn with human lives,” Austria agrees, “You more than anyone, I think. Human death means something different, it’s true. But what about death itself, Holy Rome? To you, what does it mean to die?”

Holy Rome hesitates, something uncertain in his stomach. He thinks of Italia’s grandfather, who everyone wants him to become. Who Italia misses dearly, as she’s told him several times.

“When the humans can’t fight well enough,” he says slowly, “When they can’t defend us, or when they can’t push us to advance and grow anymore, we fall. We crumble away and are overtaken. We fall.”

“That is certainly a way of looking at it, yes,” Austria says, voice a little dry, “But what does that _mean,_ Holy Rome? What does it mean to die? What happens?”

Holy Rome is feeling increasingly uneasy. “We…we fall. We don’t exist anymore. We no longer have our place on this earth.”

“We cease to exist,” Austria repeats. “We are gone. Our minds, our hearts, and our selves. Is that a sad thing, Holy Rome? Is that scary?”

It’s making his stomach turn to think about. Italia still cries for the Roman Empire sometimes, he hears her. It is a sad and scary thing. It is why he fears France, who seems to pray for his death harder than anyone. And England, sitting petty across the channel, filthily Protestant and certainly hoping to see him fall. And the Ottomans, always breathing at the door of Austria and Hungary, hungry and unrelenting. But Holy Rome will become stronger. He will never allow himself to fall. He will never allow himself to stop existing.

“Yes,” he answers, voice a little rough, “But we must not live our lives in fear of it.”

“Well said,” Austria agrees, “But let me impart to you a little truth, Holy Rome, and please do your best to understand. Death for us is a sad and scary thing. It means our existence is gone from this earth. And it is the same for humans.”

Holy Rome blinks. Austria holds up a hand before he can reply.

“The blood of humans water us like rain to a sapling,” he says, “The corpses of humans lay the foundations of our castles and dynasties. This does not mean they are not more than that. Each and every one of them has a soul. Has a mind and heart. Has fears and happinesses. Personality. For each and every one. Every hundred thousand lives. For every single one of them, death is a sad and scary thing. It is a tragedy repeated again and again. For us, yes. It is done for us. But it is not meaningless, and the shortness of their lives is no reason to dismiss them as nothing. Italia knew her gardener’s mind and spirit. They spoke and laughed together. He knew her favourite flowers and she knew his children’s names. He was a person, not a disposable stepping stone whose only purpose was to further her growth as a nation. It is hard for you, born an empire, to understand something like that, I know, but it is the truth. And it is why Italia is upset by his passing, and why I gave her the morning to pay her respects and mourn. Can you understand if I explain it like that?”

Holy Rome blinks again, a few times in quick succession. He fidgets, moves his gaze off to the side. “I...believe so.”

He doesn't, exactly. In his head, he tries to think of it as Italia seeing the gardener like a noble. Like someone worthy of being mourned, because they had worked together and spent time together and were caught in the same great struggle. But Holy Rome attends the funerals of his nobles because it’s a formality, not because he mourns them. When his nobles die, he is already looking to their successors, to the next person who will lead him through battle and into greatness.

So, no. He supposes he does not understand.

Austria seems to see that. His face is almost sad, almost disappointed. Holy Rome is thankful that he didn’t ask Italia about this instead. He would have hated for her to look at him like that.

“Well,” Austria says, breaking the awkward silence that’s descended. “That’s alright. There’s no need for you to. But do watch how you talk about humans around Italia. They mean different things to you and her.”

Austria turns his attentions back to the paperwork, and Holy Rome gets the distinct impression that he’s been dismissed. But that’s fine. He feels uncomfortable, and is glad for the conversation to be over with. It’s unpleasant to think there’s something he and Italia have a fundamental disagreement on, but he’s not going to dwell on it and work himself into a panic. He’s sure they’ll be able to work themselves towards a mutual understand eventually.

After all, they, unlike humans, have plenty of time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *pats head* don't worry Holy Rome. I'm sure you'll have plenty of time! Not like the war will tear you absolutely the fuck apart and prevent you from ever properly unifying or having proper power again and then a little over a century after that France will make good on his desires to stomp you into paste until you finally collapse and die horribly. Haha, yeah that would be unfortunate.


End file.
